


The Last Refuge of the Unimaginative

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Folklore and Old Wives' Tales, Gen, The Great British Weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10060331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: "Brr."James is not enjoying being outside, even though it's his fault they're there.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owlbsurfinbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/gifts).



> The title is a reference to an Oscar Wilde quote, with which James would normally be in full agreement: "Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative."
> 
> Written for the lovely Owlbsurfinbird on the occasion of her birthday; many happy returns!
> 
> * * *

“Brr.” James sets their pints down on the wooden table and sits, chafing his hands for warmth.

Lewis raises an eyebrow as he takes a hearty drink. “Remind me which of us insists on sitting outside so he can indulge in a filthy habit?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be pissed off about the fact that it’s below zero and with a wind that’d cut through you, _sir_ ,” James replies, and makes an exaggerated show of trying to light his cigarette against the wind. “Not to mention it _snowed_ this morning. What, does the weather think it’s still February or something?”

Lewis grins; of course his governor’s going to enjoy taking the piss out of James’s grumpiness. He’ll probably ask if James got out of the wrong side of bed this morning.

Instead, Lewis taps his nose, as if imparting a great secret. “If March comes in like a lion, it goes out like a lamb.”

James stares, then shakes his head slowly. “Old wives’ tales, sir? I really, really expected better of you.”

“You just wait and see.” Lewis settles back in his chair, looking pleased with himself – and he’s not even shivering, despite the Arctic wind that’s whistling around the almost empty beer-garden. “What’ve we seen this week? Tornadoes and hailstones the size of cricket balls in the American Midwest, landslides in San Diego, record-breaking snow in Vancouver, an’ we’ve had Storm Ewan. A tenner says we won’t be seeing anything like that by the end of the month.”

“Technically, Storm Ewan hit in February,” James says in a quelling tone, which is spoilt somewhat by the sting caused by a hailstone striking his cheek. “What the _fuck?_ ”

Lewis drains his pint and stands. “Enough moaning about the weather, Sergeant. You can join me inside soon as you’ve finished your fag.”

Warmth and the absence of hail are much more important than a half-smoked cigarette. James stubs the rest of it out and hurries to catch up with his governor – who, he reflects, both comes in and goes out like a lion. And that’s not an old wives’ tale, but incontrovertible empirical fact.

Lewis turns and pats James on the shoulder once they reach the blessed warmth of the interior. “In return for freezin’ me half to death, Sergeant, you can get them in again. And I’ll have a whisky chaser to warm me up, as well.”

He’s a lion when it comes to giving orders, too; there’s no doubt about who’s in charge. But a neat whisky sounds like an excellent idea, as does the table Lewis is heading for, over by the blazing fire in the hearth. And, given the hail that’s now rattling against the pub windows, James will be quite content to stay inside and forego any further cigarettes until they absolutely have to leave.

Bloody weather!

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken liberties with timing here; while this ficlet is set in the (unspecified) early days of Lewis and Hathaway's partnership, the specific weather events referenced took place in early March 2017.


End file.
